


a moment of

by zimtlein



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Spoilers, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23542078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimtlein/pseuds/zimtlein
Summary: The moment she dies, thousands of possible futures die with her.
Relationships: Bogotá (La casa de papel)/Nairobi | Ágata Jiménez
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	a moment of

A moment of excitement.

He knew the dance. Knew the movements, knew the sequence of steps. Never understood the elegance. There were ways, harsh tones and off-key notes, and her melodious singsong bored into unforeseen depths.

He met her in the night.

They didn’t talk, red wine pearling in her glass, bedewing her lips, coloring them in the hue of deepest love. He knew the feeling of abandoning himself to warmth. Everything about her was rugged. Dismissed him while she looked at him over the rim of her glass – looked, not watched. Never watched, because she was the world, and the world bowed down to her alone.

The depth of some of those acquaintanceships escaped him. It didn’t make much of a difference who knew of whom. The depth of encounters had long since slipped away from him. He had danced the dances. Those full of amiability, those full of neediness. If he called himself a bad person, he would claim he fled from needs. She didn’t know need like others did. She didn’t even need the wine collecting in the corner of her mouth, the droplet which, soaked in moonlight, found its way over sun-kissed skin. She needed herself, and she knew the world needed her.

That was enough.

She didn’t say anything. Every step he took had ended in off-key notes. Sometimes it needed stillstand, a surge she playfully escaped from.

“Some women find staring to be impolite.”

A taut string, easy to rip, careful movements, those he never learned. Women needed strength, and he sank into the expectation to soon be gone, to flee like a last breeze, whether he wanted to or not, the end of another tired song. Had always chosen those who couldn’t wait for the last note, who danced not for themselves, but for others; whose sun set when night began; whose voices faltered; hers didn’t.

“And you?” There would have been many words getting him farther, getting him to different places. Dark eyes, unholy. Unquiet. Searching, searching his face, searching the emptiness of fields before them, Italy’s soft features. Questions clinging to his tongue, about a past, about a future, about dreams and wishes, but that was not how songs went; that’s how realities went, those he never ventured to.

“I’m not ‘some women’.”

A laugh freezing in his throat, the sound strangled. He liked beer better than wine, blue eyes better than brown ones, but the shadows of a night, he could linger in those. It had always been a game which he grew tired of, always a succession of senseless notes. Loving until loving became impossible, being left with lives and destinies trying to impersonate something long lost, a shadow of affection.

They had danced, had twisted and turned, but then she stood up, bare feet on tiles, fabric flowing over her legs. She turned around, she turned, drank, an image. An image of moonlight, swaying through his vision. He knew, had to know, a dance not meant for him. She never danced for anyone, a muse to herself, and she gifted him – she gifted a smile, a rare good he wanted to keep forever.

“Remember that.”

He remembered it.

A moment of shame.

Words collecting in the back of his head, embarrassment, her steps purposeful. Women liked it before, liked playful words. Women liked to fall for carefully crafted syllables, because there was nothing else to fall for. The world gruesome, they were driven to the last remaining promise of affection, following it against all reason. Relief palpable whenever it was all over again, whenever he searched for a new path. They stayed alone, never fully. They stayed alone with the promise that it wasn’t their fault, not truly, it was him, him and his words and his damn words and he, he was alone, and he was damned.

She wasn’t.

She was driven by waves, and as droplet after droplet fell from his suit, the last pieces fell, the last stones did. Her voice beat against walls, vibrated, got them shaking, shook in its depths, shook him from his core to his very being. Beautiful to look at, even more beautiful to see, a goddess risen from the ocean and drenched in gold. Shame hungrily gnawed away at him. In front of her, he should have fallen to his knees.

“And you.” Wasn’t worth more than a look over her shoulder, a twitch of her eyebrows. “Don’t ruffle up my feathers again.”

They set up his diving gear, adjusted his belts, patted his shoulder, and she was lost in her own world, eyes lighting up expectantly. He could only stare. The love for a single second, the love for the world, the love for herself and only herself – she was shimmering like gold. Glances brushed, and whereas his eyes got caught in hers, irrevocably finding its last image, hers swayed on.

He wondered were the search would end.

His had already ended during Italian summer nights.

A moment of fear.

Blood on once flawless skin, smeared and dried and still shimmering under artificial light. Blood between teeth which were starting to surrender to an end. Careful expression dissolved into terror. He gripped the metal bars of her operating table. Eyes flew from one to the other, but never to him. Eyes became entangled in distant thoughts which he couldn’t catch. If this was the end – he had never taken the time to fathom a beginning.

Death was better than leading a miserable life. He understood. A decision such as this was her own. Even her own death was taken from her shaking hands. In his life, he had barely met any strong women. They all had been just there, a blink, a brief infatuation, they were the spring in passing years and the buds in March. They blossomed, and they withered, leaving him in a coldness he knew. She couldn’t wither. She never cried, not near him, and she cried for her life, for its last remnants as her breathing became ragged.

Surgery? Should they, shouldn’t they? He wished someone could take the decision from them. He wished her decision would sound more rational, would make them all look at her in silence, would graze their skins like well-crafted notes. Instead, her words were tangled and muddled and hurt.

So they decided for her.

She screamed. She screamed with body and mind, trying to flee from darkness. She screamed for her freedom, for her choice, for her life. Tokyo was breathing brokenly, face a rigid mask, but she – her breath slowed down. Silenced, bereft of a melody that should have been hers. He looked at her for a long time, her peaceful face, every last thought smothered. Death couldn’t look like that. Maybe a death this silent would never be granted to them.

He understood. A child, a part of herself, a better part. A love so unconditional anything else was forgotten. The only love which stayed. He understood the warmth she had to swallow underneath hoarse motions, and he understood the fragility which made her thoughts scatter, and he understood.

She only needed herself, because being needed had been a foreign idea to her for the longest time.

She was needed, if not for personal reasons, then at least for professional ones. She was needed as her flesh was cut open and her ribs were bent apart and a scalpel was forced into her warm body. They lost the signal. No instructing voice helped them through seconds, minutes of horror.

He could only stare. He could only believe that she would die. He could only hope death would be merciful to her.

But she liked to contradict everything, anyone, and she lived.

A part of her lungs removed, her heart beating, she lived. The nurse took care of her, and he held her hand even though she couldn’t feel it. Because she couldn’t feel it. She was warm, and her skin soft, and her breath tender, and he wished – he couldn’t put in into words, never experienced it before – had been here for such a long time, but never in such a conscious state.

Never in this way.

A moment of devotion.

When her look, drenched in the shimmer of gold, dedicated itself to his. A wordless promise, a wordless thought, and gentle fingers tapping over his cheek. Something inside her seemed to bloom, something that had long since taken root in his heart.

Not like his other wives, she had said – but he had never had a wife. Had never wanted a wife, never felt the desire to be bound in the same way. Love, stemming from a person of the same blood, of the same DNA – this was love that pulled him back. Love, colored by a depth that drew out every part that was him, no matter how well it was hidden – and her lips which curled to a knowing smile – and her eyes which brushed his, which searched, which searched for him as sunlight wove through her hair. Tired of hardships, but never tired of life, a whole world opening up before him. New, unexpected. Hopefully clear. With the tips of his fingers, he traced the contours of his world, from the deepest pores to the fullest lips, and no beauty was as gripping as this.

He didn’t lie. Had been hers since the moment harsh words, playful yet firm, had poured over his skin.

When he hesitated to bend down to her. When for a second, her scent washed over every single corner of his being. When he felt his heart beat up to his throat, the thump deep and vibrating, a meaning unlike anything else before. Kisses had been easy, but never as light as a feather. Kisses had been demanding, but never delicate. Kisses had never brought tears to his eyes.

This wasn’t a kiss. It was the touch of a goddess, and his head swam from the realization that she wanted more. That she wanted him, and no one else but him.

When lips met his. When breaths mingled into one. When a sigh escaped her, a quivering sound. When she stood up on shaking legs, searching for purchase. When hands clawed at him, when she didn’t let go, when motions became urgent. When he wanted her and _wanted_ her and wanted to hold her and held her and mouths moved over each other in a rhythm known to time itself. He tasted her and felt her, and was filled with her and was insatiable, her scent in his nose and her body pressed against his.

The elevator shook, and their lips parted.

A moment of quietness.

A prancing step. Drew him closer like the warmest night. Promised him worlds. A strength that made him weak. Could have discovered her, upmost layer to the nethermost, could have carried away stone after stone, could have lied eyes on the glimmering, colorful core, wouldn’t have been afraid of any last hue. Could have found what made her eyes restless in lonely nights, what dimmed shining irises, what made red wine run down her throat and carved lines of worry onto her forehead.

Risen from the dead, unfazed by impossibilities, with lips so sweet and looks so playful. With goals, with the knowledge, a kind of glee he could never grasp. Would have held her hand, would have bathed in the honor to feel completely devoted to her, would have followed her to the end of all worlds, even if it had only been her own.

Untenable as she fell. Useless thoughts tumbling over when she met the ground. Knees first. Upper body last. With eyes widened in disbelief, the same disbelief which created silence. Blood on her face wasn’t a foreign sight anymore. Blood that began to drip into a deep red. Black, that spot in the center of her forehead as she fell, as she kept falling. Emptiness in brown eyes. A glance had grazed him, an endless second, a glance that stuck, or it had been pure and endless darkness.

Fought like an animal, lost like a goddess in her last grace. Face turned to the ceiling. Eyes forever directed to an above. Vastness before her. Death was filthy and fast, and death was silent.

He stood. He didn’t move. He heard gunshots. His world sank into noise and disbelief. His world sank into hers, scattered, splintered, unable to hold onto anything anymore. His world withered, burned to ashes.

She died.

A moment of silence.

It had started with the teddy bear. Maybe even earlier – with the first few words they exchanged. Maybe even earlier – with the child she called her own. Maybe even earlier – with the children he called his own. Maybe even earlier – years ago, when they surely, somehow, were lost in the same city, and destiny never led them to each other. Love had been searched for, and love had withdrawn to preserve itself.

He stared at the teddy bear. Only a few could claim to have loved a goddess who defied death. But destiny exacts its toil.

All his children’s mothers lived. All his children were young. Death wasn’t unknown to him. The blood clung, and it would always stay. It stuck to his throat, stuck to his lips, clung to his skin like her scent, thick like honey, filling his mouth in the most gruesome way.

He had never experienced a similar ease in all his life, and the memory was all that was left.

He wanted to scream, but he stayed silent. Wanted to wail, but he stayed silent. Wanted to clench hands to fists, but he stayed silent. Out of big eyes, the teddy bear stared at him.

Together, they stayed silent.


End file.
